


The Wonders of the Fine Wintry Day

by PaulaMcG



Series: Professor at Hogwarts [4]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Christmas, F/F, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, Homosexuality, Loneliness, M/M, Memories, People Watching, References to Hate Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28667562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulaMcG/pseuds/PaulaMcG
Summary: In December 1993 Remus ends up witnessing and reliving more intimacy than he's expected when wishing to share some joys in visiting Hogsmeade.
Relationships: Kingsley Shacklebolt/Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall/Poppy Pomfrey, Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood, Poppy Pomfrey/Pomona Sprout, Remus Lupin/Severus Snape, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Professor at Hogwarts [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693546
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	The Wonders of the Fine Wintry Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [digthewriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/digthewriter/gifts).



> This story was written for [HoggyWartyXmas](https://hoggywartyxmas.livejournal.com) in 2020. Thank you, Dig, for inspiring prompts and character suggestions, and thank you, TRS, for assigning them to me and for organising everything together with Kelly! Thank you, my lovely, loyal beta Liseuse. Thank you, Hoggywartians, for all the sharing!
> 
> The original title was Another Round, and I've changed it now when realising that this fic - which, of course, works separately, too - follows a drabble with too similar a title in my series Professor at Hogwarts. The new title is a phrase from the opening scene, words that I had meant as an lj-cut text but became - and pleased me as - a subtitle when the fic was posted by TRS.

The other teachers must have left the castle earlier – all others who want to brave Hogsmeade on this Saturday when students are allowed to go there. Remus has waited in vain for Harry, still without permission to visit the village, to come to him again or just to saunter along his corridor, hinting at a hope to be invited into his office. 

Now passing between the stone pillars, Remus throws a sudden glance from under his hood at one of the sculpted boars. He catches it fluttering its wings so as to shake down the light blanket of December's first snow. Wishing for human company to share the wonders of the fine wintry day, he turns to look back at the doors, and sees them still opening.

Severus – who definitely doesn't want to walk together with Remus where somebody might witness it!

The most pleasure Remus can now gain from this irrefutably sexy wizard, who loves to hate him, is a make-believe game of nostalgia: pretending to try to avoid the Slytherin's stalking in the way he used to do together with... Just like in the October of their sixth year, he hurries down the lane in order to take a covert shortcut right after the first bend.

Now the hawthorn hedge is leafless, its autumn palette of yellow and red, bronze and purple gone, and only a few bright scarlet haws remain for birds to feed on. And the gap through which, back then, Remus guided... his Pads is gone, too. Over the years, the gap has grown closed, of course, with an entanglement of branches.

Remus must have expected this. Since he has to stop and to draw out his wand for a Hextricatum spell, he's almost sure that Severus will round the bend in time and see him sneak out of the lane.

Having passed through the hedge to the bare open field, Remus is met by a more frigid wind than what's kept blowing in his memory. Then again, perhaps he'd better reinterpret, even reinvent those long-past moments, which he's continued to cherish despite claiming to have left the joys and the sorrows of his youth behind.

Ten years ago, a couple of years after the end of all those lives that mattered, his voluntary exile started taking him closer to losing his own life, too. But the unexpected kindness of strangers tempted him to believe that he could draw strength from the love that had once truly existed. Since then he's allowed himself to remember fondly all his friends, even the troubled rebel who'd become the dog for him, and the man for him, and kissed him for the very first time in the shelter of the hawthorn.

Now Remus can't afford such sentimentality. He must be prepared to face the traitor. Having kept the Animagus secret, he's taken the responsibility to lure the dog to him, then to stop the dangerous fugitive.

What better way to defile his sweetest memories than submitting to another round of hate sex right here.

After taking only a few steps on the frozen soil covered with a thin layer of snow, Remus turns and gives Severus the most flirting wry smile he can muster. Indeed, Professor Snape in his stylish winter cloak has come after him.

"My dearest colleague! This time you can't claim not to have followed me." No, not in the way they've both insisted on calling their encounters in the Forbidden Forest pure coincidences.

"No." Severus's lip curls in what Remus recognises as a less suspicious, more confident, irresistible version of the first smirk given to him by whom he almost befriended on that very first day, before their fateful Sorting. "It occurred to me I could enjoy torturing you in passing. Even though here in broad daylight there's no chance the murderer is watching and hating to see what you let me do to you."

The murderer – that's what the bloodtraitor Black turned into, according to the Marauders' Slytherin nemesis, as soon as the March of their sixth year, due to... what Remus wanted to believe was not a prank and not a betrayal, but just a rash, convoluted attempt at saving his secret, instead of exposing it, let alone using a werewolf friend – and sweetheart – for killing anyone. Now the truth about that distant history is inconsequential. And Remus won't agree to talk about the man who used to be his... And tries his best not to think about him now.

Severus's purpose must be to stop him from feeling aroused, because himself he'd prefer sex without consent. No, Remus won't give him that satisfaction. As a werewolf he's always craved for touch on his skin to confirm the value of this precarious body, and he hasn't had a lover since his return from the Mediterranean. And now it's been a couple of weeks since his and Severus's second fuck – or third, if he counts the incident in seventh year, when he caught Severus wanking in the freezing woods, probably just discovering his cold-exposure kink.

The cold never arouses Remus, and after his drifting years he hates being cold. But now he's finally got winter boots, hand-me-downs like the too thin cloak, under which the cardigan Poppy gave him keeps him warm enough. And despite the snow swirling around in gusts of wind, his cock twitches hopefully when he watches Severus inch nearer and reach out a hand to yank down his hood.

Only an icy blast touches Remus's bare neck, and blows Severus's curtains of lank hair aside to reveal more of the handsome features: the sharp cheekbones besides the impressive nose, which Remus has secretly always admired. White flakes decorating the glowing darkness of the hair – as Severus, of course, has no grey yet in his – summon from a long-ago, deceptively happy winter an image... To be replaced by a portrait of this mature man, with whom he hopes to still make proper peace.

Severus stares at him appraisingly, then arches an eyebrow, dismissing him – and surprises him by deigning to explain. "You're not even shivering. I don't think I want you like this. Of course, I could rip your rags off, press your ugly body against the shrubs, and make the thorns tear your scarred skin. However, today I'm not prepared for using you – not for satisfying any simple carnal desire."

He's drawn out his wand, but he raises the other hand again, now to move a finger in Remus's field of vision, certainly intending him to still expect some kind of a touch on his chin or throat, if not a gentle one. But the poke Remus feels is of the wandtip pushed in through his neckline and under all the layers of clothing – right onto the bite scar on his left shoulder.

For a moment more Severus is leaning so close that despite the direction of the wind, Remus can smell the exquisite fragrance of his aftershave, probably the skilful Potion Master's own concoction. But he pulls back, still swinging his cloak open, this time, of course, not revealing nakedness but an elegant set of robes.

"Today I've dressed up – for someone worthy." He swirls around to return to the lane.

That was good enough, or bad enough, Remus keeps telling himself when striding across the field. He's interacted with someone rather intimately at least. And after that encounter, no trace of bliss lingers by the spot where once two boys in love were tempted to stay instead of continuing to Hogsmeade to meet their other friends. Back then they easily sneaked through the hedge here – to a short stretch of the bending lane without anyone further than a few yards away being able to see it.

Now Remus charms some shrubs aside – and realises he's not stopped to listen first, as he finds himself right next to a couple in the middle of passionate snogging.

"I'm... so sorry," he mutters when two elderly faces turn towards him, flushing pink.

"Oh, it's you!" Poppy says, and the corners of her eyes crinkle, and she continues through merry laughter, hugging Pomona Sprout tighter again, and placing her sharp chin on Pomona's unruly grey curls. "Remus Lupin, once a Marauder, always a Marauder!"

The last and lonely one. It must be foolish to entertain hopes of being anything better in Severus's eyes.

No. He manages to focus on the warmth of Pomona's attitude towards him. Her original bias and repulsion against him diminished surprisingly as early as right after... what she must have considered a Marauder's prank but not Remus's. 

"I didn't mean..." he replies, smiling. "I was just taking a shortcut."

"For no completely innocent reason, I wager. But I'll let you keep your secrets."

Yes, while she used to be the only one here besides Dumbledore to share the worst one, she never tried to disclose others. Having first hated her duties related to him, she must have slowly learnt to like him. She started touching this monthly patient not only with her wand but with tender fingers just when he no longer needed such healing as before he got his Animagi. She even tried to change her habits and get up earlier and come to fetch him from the Shack soon after the moonset – so that he had to tell her he preferred resting for a while there by himself. After she'd learnt that all the Marauders knew what he was, she must have suspected they often came there before her, but she never asked, and she allowed them to see him in the hospital wing.

Poppy kisses the crown of Pomona's head. "This didn't need to remain a secret from Remus. He understands."

Back then she, too, understood how he loved... a boy. Perhaps as early as at that Halloween full moon when his... one illicit visitor had lifted the invisibility cloak so as to let him see a turnip lantern and in its light the beautiful... apple, which the two of them took turns sinking their teeth into.

Pomona, still looking a bit flustered, chuckles. "Let's all walk together if you're on your way to Hogsmeade, Remus." She links her arm with Poppy's and jerks her head, urging them to move.

If Pomona needs further explanation, she wants to take care that nobody's eavesdropping. Remus is, of course, against tarrying until Severus catches up with them. After Poppy's lifted up Pomona's hood, and startled Remus by doing the same tender service to him, they round the bend and start along a straight stretch of lane, side by side, all three, Poppy in the middle. At the other end of this long stretch Remus can discern two lanky figures, maybe seventh-year or sixth-year boys, and perhaps he only imagines that they, too, walk very close to each other.

Poppy restrains her urge only for a moment and soon completes her statement about Remus's understanding in a whisper. "Seventeen-year-old Remus Lupin and... another Marauder once caught me kissing Minerva."

Remus manages to grin. "And as soon as back then Poppy caught me. We're... in the same boat. It's a shame... I mean it's wrong they consider homosexuality a shame in this country. Even in Muggle Britain the age of consent for two men is still twenty-one, and old buggers like me can be sued for gross indecency, and after I came back I've heard how it's got worse at schools since the 1988 law against the promotion of... Sorry, no need to talk..."

"It's all right." Poppy shakes her head, huffing. "I mean... That is not all right. But it's good we all know that Hogwarts governors wouldn't approve of openly homosexual teachers, not even witches. Anyway, it's less hard for us lesbians. We were never criminalised, rather just non-existent."

"I can always walk arm-in-arm with this dear colleague of mine," Pomona cuts in, and as Remus peeks around Poppy at her, he sees the round face shine pretty and youthful. 

"Yes." Poppy gives her a peck on the cheek. "The two of us live a kind of double, half-secret life, but happily together, just as I lived with Minerva for a couple of years back in the seventies. The war changed... not everything for the better." She looks at Remus meaningfully – as if he could possibly feel comfortable to start talking about himself now.

"No," he merely says, sighing.

Poppy means well. The knowledge of past intimacy between him and the traitor seems to have made her ever kinder to him now that the awful situation has brought him – them – back. Perhaps because her kindness has always been based on pity.

Once again, he wishes he didn't need to be grateful. Fortunately there's no reason for gratefulness either to Dumbledore or to Severus for the Wolfsbane Potion, since – by stopping him from leaving behind his human mind with its full awareness of all pain – it makes the transformations harder to bear than if they allowed him to spend the full moon in the Shack with an animal companion. But Poppy helps him with simple soothing concoctions, as well as claims to need someone to wear what she enjoys knitting. And doesn't insist on talking about his losses, or the darkest years, or his conflicted emotions – has only offered to listen in case he ever wants to talk.

He must try to be pleasant company and also make the most of this chance to feel that he's got friends. "Do the two of you have Christmas shopping to do in Hogsmeade?"

"Not much," Pomona bends forward to catch Remus's eyes from behind Poppy. "I give mainly plants as presents, and Poppy knits, as you know – perhaps needs to buy some more wool, don't you, Poppy?"

"Right. And Remus paints. Perhaps cards for us, too, if we behave ourselves."

"We do. We've planned to have cakes in Madam Puddifoot's, and now we're inviting Remus so we can treat him to some, aren't we?"

"Thank you." Remus feels tempted to accept, but... "I do enjoy your lovely company, and you make me believe you don't feel I've forced myself on you, but... Sharing this walk is enough of a treat."

"Of course not!" and "Nonsense!" Poppy and Pomona have already cut in, protesting.

"Thank you, but I'll join you another time. Today I'll love thinking about how the two of you sit in Puddifoot's like on your first date."

Having resorted to the additional argument that he needed to buy something, Remus must step into Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop when Poppy and Pomona keep giving some more waves over their shoulders, and even blow playful kisses to him. But that's all right, as it is a pleasure to enter the ink-scented warmth.

The bells above the door have started jingling the melody of God Rest Ye Merry Unicorns. Since it's impossible for him to avoid attention, Remus lowers his hood and greets the shopkeeper.

And asks in a calm and cheerful voice for something improbable like... "I would like to buy a dozen baobab-bark envelopes, please."

Mr Scrivenshaft shakes his head and focuses fully again on three young witches – fourth-year students, yes, Misses Chang, Broomsbury and Edgecombe – who're examining quills with pink heart-shaped plumes, and perhaps going too far in testing them. They giggle at what the quills scribble by themselves after being touched with lips.

A youth with hunched shoulders now approaches Remus, wringing his ink-stained hands. A new assistant, perhaps a seasonal helper, he must do his best to reply according to Mr Scrivenshaft's instructions. "I'm afraid... those things are sold out. Perhaps something else?" 

"Oh..." Regretting his trick and feeling pity for the assistant, Remus still follows the old habit up to pretending surprise and disappointment, and adds, "In that case I'll just look around, try to start planning what else I could choose as gifts."

Now that he's got some regular income, he can, of course, actually buy something, not just loiter in shelter from the snowfall and the strengthening wind. And he truly enjoys the thought of getting proper presents for his colleagues, in addition to the Christmas cards he has, indeed, started painting for all of them. Perhaps a fine – but heartless – quill could please Severus.

Remus turns to examine the most elegant and trendy stationery in the window display. But he's distracted by the pretty view.

This moving picture is the best gift he could have hoped for himself. Soft flakes dance in the gusty wind, and new-fallen snow borders the eaves and the windowsills, and its crystals make the holly wreaths decorating all doors sparkle bright in the glow of fairy lights that weave their paths along and across the alley. For a moment at least, Remus can feel that he's truly come home for Christmas. Where he's spent less dark and less cold winters, he's missed the bliss of finding light and warmth like this.

Despite the fresh whiteness, there's northern deep December gloom spreading out under the heavy clouds. The firelight, the candles and the shopkeepers' extended Lumos spells are enough to turn the interiors into stages, and Remus's eyes are drawn to the figures inside the opposite shop, Gladrags Wizardwear.

Is he imagining things – so hopelessly daydreaming of Severus? No, it is him! That profile is unmistakably his, and he's holding out his hands, offering a gleaming silk scarf to someone, next to whom he barely looks handsome. And that wizard – tall, with deep brown complexion, which makes Severus's look ashen – bends his head to examine the fabric closely, taking hold of Severus's both hands, and... covertly pressingly his lips on a palm, or on fingertips! Now this must be Remus's make-believe, such a romantic gesture, something Severus wouldn't agree to.

But now this pair of customers are together fitting the scarf on the tall one's waist. They must be planning to use it as that special accessory for a fancy Muggle attire – as a... cummerbund? And when the two men turn their backs to the window, perhaps to approach the shopkeeper, a hand is placed on the tall one's arse, the fine shape of which is, indeed, visible thanks to Muggle clothes: tight jeans and a bulky but short jacket.

As Remus sees the men exit the shop, he hurries to step aside. So as to make sure they won't notice him through the pane, he moves all the way to the corner, behind a fir tree, which Scrivenshaft has decorated with glowing silver-and-glass inkwells.

God Rest Ye Merry... The tinkling of the bells accompanies Severus's icy voice. "An Auror like you, Shacklebolt, should know it would be discreet and sensible to wear some kind of a wizard's outfit here, even when you're undercover."

Severus must talk like that in order to let everyone learn he's in the company of someone respectable – worthy, as he said – but not that they are in too friendly terms. In case they really are. But... Shacklebolt? That name rings a bell. 

"I don't think it matters what I wear. I come here so often that people recognise me in any case." The deep, slow voice turns into a teasing whisper. "And when I'm here not on duty, I choose the clothes that will make you most endearingly annoyed."

Peeking through the fir branches, Remus sees a wide smile flash across the brown face, to which the warm light gives a lively reddish sheen. Burnt-umber undertones, the painter in Remus would call this hue. And is that a gold hoop earring, just visible under the brim of the knit cap? The wizard swipes the cap off, revealing the rest of his handsome shaved head. 

Severus is lowering his voice only a bit. "You keep coming to try and track the escaped convict."

"Not a convict. Not in the judicial sense. Never convicted, never given a trial."

"You pettifogger!"

"Not at all, Severus. Just doing my best to arouse you – who are so fond of confrontation. Seriously." The tone of amusement in the soft whisper is replaced by thoughtfulness. "You refuse to admit it was a strange case, and the way it was handled... I was only a trainee, but I knew him and James, and I could hardly believe it. An Auror – and they didn't give him a chance to argue his case!"

"I've had enough of shopping together with you. Who's going first to the Broomsticks?

The two wizards must have moved to stand in front of the shelves on the other side of the tree, not far from Remus, but he finds it hard to focus and to hear their ever lower whispers.

"I'm going. Openly to the room I've reserved. And I'll allow your Apparation – directly onto my bed."

"Be sure to get yourself out of those Muggle clothes, Kingsley, and no more talk about the convict!"

There's the sound of clearing of a throat, and the deep voice continues, sonorous once more, "All right, I've chosen the quill I need. It was interesting to exchange news and views with you, Professor Snape. Merry Christmas!"

A gust blows stinging snowflakes against Remus's face. He's walked out soon after the Auror, not caring if Scrivenshaft or Severus or both notice it, and now he stops on the doorstep, suddenly disoriented. The fairy lights sway across his blurred vision.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, a few years younger, a Ravenclaw, he now remembers. A promising Auror trainee, mentioned by James and... But too young to be invited to the Order, and not a close friend. Even someone like him doubts, or at least thinks there should have been a trial.

Whereas, over the years, Remus grew reconciled with what he'd been told. He's been too weak, and back then he was too devastated, and stupid enough to listen to Dumbledore, whom he should have known not to trust. Dumbledore made him believe that because of what he was, it would have been considered an aggravation, if a trial, or just a permission to visit had been asked by him. He did nothing, just tried to... not even tried to survive, hardly agreed to survive.

But he mustn't let this regret and the old grief blind him. What can he do now? Despite having lost sight of Shacklebolt, he knows to turn towards the Three Broomsticks. And he runs.

Breathless, he skids to a halt only a few yards before the inn. Shacklebolt beside him stops, alert with wand in hand, and assesses him quickly, scanning him with wide, intelligent eyes.

"Excuse me! It's about..." Remus says, panting and bending to lean both hands on his thighs, but lifting his gaze promptly back to Shacklebolt's face, trying to stop the sight of the sexy Muggle outfit from reminding him of another wizard's rebellious attire, of... Yes. "Sirius... Black."

"Yes? You've got a recent sighting?"

"No. Just... Please, if you catch him, could you... Send a message to me! Professor Lupin. You know, I was James's friend, and his... Before giving him to the Dementors, you must want to let him argue his case, finally. If he's still sane enough and willing. Perhaps I can help in making him want to talk."

Shacklebolt frowns, perhaps on the verge of turning away. But now Remus is given a reassuring – if not the full beaming – smile. And he feels a firm hand on his shoulder. On his less sensitive, right one, fortunately, as it's Shacklebolt's free, left hand. In any case, maybe there's a perceptible reaction to the touch, or otherwise Shacklebolt guesses that they play for the same team in some sense, at least. In any case he must understand that Remus has heard his comments in Scrivenshaft's.

"Don't worry." The slow rhythm makes the response more soothing than any Remus dared hope for. "I trust we'll both do our best, and if need arises... we'll keep in touch."

As Remus is trudging towards the Hog's Head, his feet keep slipping on the snow – and his mind slipping back to memories of that bright and chilly October day. Those friends they joined in Honeydukes could as well be here now, as they were equally invisible back then: concealed under James's cloak. Unusual as it was, only James and Peter had been caught red-handed in a prank and deprived of the permission to visit the village, and they had come covertly, through the newly-discovered tunnel.

Tempted to talk to his obscure companions like back then, Remus could offer to them again some comments on the sign swinging above the door. What a bloody realistic portrait of a slaughtered boar!

As soon as entering the smoky gloom of the nearly deserted pub, before reaching the bar, he can't help glancing towards the corner table next to the wood burner. What he can see over there is only... two boys in love.

"What?"

He's slumped onto a stool without greeting the barman, and deserved the blunt question. Aberforth must be used to customers from all walks of life, and doesn't mind if someone isn't capable of polite conversation.

Lifting his eyes towards the bearded face and grinning apologetically, Remus reaches a compromise of, "Evening! A Firewhiskey."

The first sip burns his mouth, but he digs out more Sickles than he can remember ever squandering on a pub night. Before getting drunk, he must look again and more closely at those two students – perhaps on their first date – in order to suppress the images resurrected by his longing.

Two seventh-year Gryffindors, and none other than the Quidditch Captain and the Head Boy!

Oliver Wood has hunched his fine muscular shoulders, so as to lean across and to punctuate his animated talk with slaps of a wide palm against the tabletop. He's so passionate, and in his masculinity there is – why not, in no contradiction – probably such sensitivity that he really needs someone close, someone other than his team mates to confide in, even when the prospects in the Quidditch tournament look less bleak now than right after Harry's deplorable accident. 

And Percy Weasley's listening, with his slender neck tilted to one side. Due to his pompous manner and the strict adhering to rules, he's seemed totally different from his uncles, but now his raised eyebrow and a sly smile remind Remus of Gideon's furtive flirting at parties. There's a blush spreading up to his ears as he's just touched Wood's hand when grabbing his drink.

Under the hems of their robes, their long legs must be pressed, even tangled together.

Remus takes another gulp, and rubs a palm against his thigh. The other two boys once next to the wood burner were sitting side by side, and when almost forgetting their invisible company for a moment, both of them gave in to the urge to touch each other under the table.

They used to try their best not to let anyone see their intimate gestures. But after Remus had finally accepted the apology and they'd got their connection back – and also got the permission to meet while he was resting in Pomfrey's care after transformations, they became more trusting when sharing a day in the hospital wing.

As Remus's lids fluttered open on such a long-ago luminous May evening, he saw Poppy Pomfrey, facing him, but with eyes closed, sitting on a nearby bed, with her hems lifted to her waist. And between her legs there was someone kneeling, and tracing kisses up to her thighs. Someone with hair twisted carefully into a neat bun.

Remus must have made a slight sound, also shifted and pushed his blanket down a bit. Now Pomfrey stared straight at him with widening eyes.

"Sorry..." she said softly, lifting a finger to her lips, "Minerva. Let's go to my rooms before the patient wakes up."

Only after watching surreptitiously how his incredibly reckless nurse guided his Head of House out without allowing her to look towards his bed, did Remus look down at himself. The blanket still covering him down from his hips was raised into a tent above his hard-on. And on his chest there were spread long strands of most beautiful inky black hair, someone's who, in deep sleep, had pressed lips onto the dip between his collarbones – one of the loveliest spots in his body, according to... his Pads, his Sirius.

"Give me another!" Remus's voice comes out hoarse. "And one for yourself."

He needs to focus on the people who are here. While he wishes he could do some of that forbidden promotion by expressing his acceptance of the two boys' relationship, he knows they'd rather their interaction went unnoticed.

"You know, I love... talking to people." Remus hears himself say, feeling properly drunk after emptying his glass again. "To other creatures, too, actually."

"You lads always scorn the way I talk to my goats."

"I'm sorry if I ever did. No more a lad, I've learnt how animals... Mundane or magical, they hear us."

Aberforth huffs, but after downing his drink, he tops up both glasses, muttering, "On the house."

"This is hard... For a lot of creatures... The winter is," Remus goes on, vaguely aware of an agenda. "Do you ever give scraps to... say, strays? If you ever see any around your backyard?"

"This past autumn I have seen..."

"How do they look like? Like they'd listen in the way your goats do?"

"Like – I'm afraid – the Grim."

"You know I teach... I've studied... got familiar with all kinds. Some creatures that are considered Dark... are not." After taking another swig, Remus opens his mouth in order to let some of the heat out, and it turns into further drunken words. "Perhaps if they come for scraps... Those strays, you could ask them. If they really want harm – in case they'd kill... even their own puppies, you could tell them to go away, far away from here. If not... Owl me, and I'll come. You know, I've loved dogs since..."

"I know." Aberforth pats Remus on the back, so that he can't focus for a moment and is not sure if he hears a promise, too, before, "But now I can't serve more to you. Go and get your head clear. And give those other lads their privacy."

"Right. If you talk to them, too... Encourage them," Remus says, but the rest of his words are snatched by the wind, as he has already tottered out and is standing under the boar sign, pulling the cuffs of the cardigan over his hands. "Whatever happens, something's to remain of what they have. Sorrow and joy."


End file.
